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AA MMaarryy RRuusssseellll CCoommppaanniioonn Exploring the World of Laurie R. King’s Mary Russell/Sherlock Holmes Series elcome to the world of Mary Russell, one-time apprentice, long-time partner to Sherlock Holmes. What follows is an introduction to Russell’s memoirs, published under the name of Laurie R. King beginning with The Beekeeper’s Apprentice in 1994. We’ve added comments, excerpts, illuminating photos and an assortment of interesting links and extras. Some of them are fun, some of them are scholarly. Which only goes to prove that laughter and learning can go hand in hand. Enjoy! Laurie R. King Laurie R. King.com Mary Russell.com Contents INTRODUCTION ONE: Beginnings: Mary stumbles (literally) on Holmes (The Beekeepers Apprentice) TWO: Coming of Age: A Balancing Act (A Monstrous Regiment of Women) THREE: Mary Russell, Theologian (A Letter of Mary) FOUR: Russell & Holmes in Baskerville Country (The Moor) FIVE: Time and Place in Palestine (O Jerusalem) SIX: The Great War & the Long Week-end (Justice Hall) SEVEN: An Empire in Sunset—The Raj, Kipling’s Boy, & the Great Game (The Game) EIGHT: Loose Ends—Russell & Holmes in America (Locked Rooms) NINE: A Face from the Past (The Language of Bees) TEN: Russell & Holmes Meet a God (The God of the Hive) POSTSCRIPT One: Mary stumbles (literally) on Holmes Click cover for book page The Beekeeper‘s Apprentice: With Some Notes Upon the Segregation of the Queen (One of the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association’s 100 Best Novels of the Century) Mary Russell is what Sherlock Holmes would look like if Holmes, the Victorian detective, were a) a woman, b) of the Twentieth century, and c) interested in theology. If the mind is like an engine, free of gender and nurture considerations, then the Russell and Holmes stories are about two people whose basic mental mechanism is identical. What they do with it, however, is where the interest lies. After a long life in private practice, Sherlock Holmes, retired to the Sussex Downs, is confronted by a young person with the potential to become his student. Not at all certain about it, nonetheless he harnesses her voracious mind to the discipline of his trade, teaches her all he knows, and watches with bemusement—and some alarm—as she grows beyond the status of student into a full-fledged partner. The book plays on a mixed analogy of “queen” images: In the game of chess she and Holmes are playing, Russell the pawn is made into a queen. And to draw on the techniques of beekeeping, Holmes must then segregate her in order to carry out the investigation. English history is scattered with extraordinary women, women like Gertrude Bell and Mary Kingsley who simply didn’t listen when told there were things they really shouldn’t do. Mary Russell doesn’t listen, either. The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, set in England’s Sussex Downs Excerpt I was fifteen when I first met Sherlock Holmes, fifteen years old with my nose in a book as I walked the Sussex Downs, and nearly stepped on him. In my defence I must say it was an engrossing book, and it was very rare to come across another person in that particular part of the world in that war year of 1915. In my seven weeks of peripatetic reading amongst the sheep (which tended to move out of my way) and the gorse bushes (to which I had painfully developed an instinctive awareness) I had never before stepped on a person. It was a cool, sunny day in early April, and the book was by Virgil. I had set out at dawn from the silent farmhouse, chosen a different direction from my usual—in this case southeasterly, towards the sea—and had spent the intervening hours wrestling with Latin verbs, climbing unconsciously over stone walls, and unthinkingly circling hedgerows, and would probably not have noticed the sea until I stepped off one of the chalk cliffs into it. As it was, my first awareness that there was another soul in the universe was when a male throat cleared itself loudly not four feet from me. The Latin text flew into the air, followed closely by an Anglo-Saxon oath. Heart pounding, I hastily pulled together what dignity I could and glared down through my spectacles at this figure hunched up at my feet: a gaunt, greying man in his fifties wearing a cloth cap, ancient tweed greatcoat, and decent shoes, with a threadbare Army rucksack on the ground beside him. A tramp, perhaps, who had left the rest of his possessions stashed beneath a bush. Or an Eccentric. Certainly no shepherd. He said nothing. Very sarcastically. I snatched up my book and brushed it off. ―What on earth are you doing?‖ I demanded. ―Lying in wait for someone?‖ He raised one eyebrow at that, smiled in a singularly condescending and irritating manner, and opened his mouth to speak in that precise drawl which is the trademark of the overly educated upper-class English gentleman. A high voice; a biting one: definitely an Eccentric. ―I should think that I can hardly be accused of ‗lying‘ anywhere,‖ he said, ―as I am seated openly on an uncluttered hillside, minding my own business. When, that is, I am not having to fend off those who propose to crush me underfoot.‖ He rolled the penultimate r to put me in my place. READ MORE or DOWNLOAD HERE . In this video talk and interview to the Gavilan College creative writing class, Laurie talks about how she got started writing and how The Beekeeper’s Apprentice came to fruition. And if you’d like Laurie to read you a bit of Beekeeper’s Apprentice, drop in here. You might also like to see what John Cleese and Rowan Atkinson have to say about the art of beekeeping. Jean Lukens’ Beekeeper Russellscape Mary Russell has sparked the artistic response in her readers. Any time you’re moved to contribute to our Russellscape or one of the other categories, just send ahead, and you’ll be entered into the next contest we hold. By Elina Kivimäki from Finland Two: Coming of Age: A Balancing Act Click cover for book page A Monstrous Regiment of Women (Nero Wolfe award) “I appreciate the forms of crime fiction, because it gives me an entertaining story to tell, while at the same time unrolling threads of meaning throughout the plot lines. Mysticism, feminist identity, scriptural interpretation, the struggle for equality between the sexes, control and submission, friendship and love: all the colors on the painter’s palette, brought together in service of an entertainment.” —Laurie R. King *** Some books germinate from a place, others from an episode witnessed or experienced. And some take their beginnings from a title and grow to fit. In 1558, John Knox wrote a vehement protest against women monarchs entitled, “The First Blast of the Trumpet Against a Monstrous Regiment of Women.” (Modern English would use the word Régime rather than Regiment.) Queen Elizabeth I, on the throne at the time, was by no means amused: a “Second Blast of the Trumpet” was never written. Queen Elizabeth I In the winter of 1920, Mary Russell is on the brink of her 21st birthday, when she enters into her majority and inherits the estate left by her parents’ death seven years before. The largest question in her life is that of her one-time teacher, later partner in detection, Sherlock Holmes: What exactly is the basis of their relationship? She herself is not at all certain. How does one write a romance about two people who are not demonstrably romantic? Particularly when the story is being told by one of them, as an old woman, who closely guards her privacy? The answer to that lies in the way in which people conceal truths from themselves. Russell sees but does not perceive; she hears but does not listen. A part of her knows that she wishes to extend her partnership with Holmes into the fullness of a marriage partnership; at the same time, she well understands the hazards of affiliating herself with a man of such strong attitudes and forceful opinions. She tries to claim the best of both worlds—a marriage, but one based on rational decision rather than commitment. To her astonishment and dismay, Holmes himself, that utter rationalist, instantly quashes that as an impossibility, a crippled imitation of a marriage that would be doomed from the beginning. Thus Russell is set onto a quest for nothing less than her future. She begins in her past, with a friend from the University, who introduces her to a woman, and to another possible future life. Excerpt I used occasionally to wonder why the otherwise canny folk of the nearby towns, and particularly the stationmasters who sold the tickets, did not remark at the regular appearance of odd characters on their platforms, one old and one young, of either sex, often together. Not until the previous summer had I realised that our disguises were treated as a communal scheme by our villagers, who made it a point of honour never to let slip their suspicions that the scruffy young male farmhand who slouched through the streets might be the same person who, dressed considerably more appropriately in tweed skirt and cloche hat, went off to Oxford during term time and returned to buy tea cakes and spades and the occasional half-pint of bitter from the merchants when she was in residence. I believe that had a reporter from the Evening Standard come to town and offered one hundred pounds for an inside story on the famous detective, the people would have looked at him with that phlegmatic country expression that hides so much and asked politely who he might be meaning.

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